was the last time I saw youand it was there in triestethat we felt this way, fallingto the sad swoon of the sea

thrown from the gulfboth of us in free communalbound by tongue our caressour love broken

Down the Foibein the darknesschasms of our limbsand our hands can connect

recapitulate, get uptorn from the stars, striveour loves aboveand throw ourselves back

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Get out of your shell a turtle with his flippers and long stiped head just pushed the door open and strolled in hes not walking about over my girlfriends underwear hes staring at the pastels on the floor and the empty easel what he wants I have no idea as I sit in boiling water he noticed my heat and is now in retreat back to the hall what a shame of a soup I am

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the last roach appears and I kill him.hes theres on the flooryou see em'(he birthed many silverfish)little bugsI wrestle himhes still aliveon his backstrugglingwounded'big bug of primestareflopI'm a torturer nowkill him for the plebian?cause the violin is moving himan accordion his legs and antennafirst lines are meant for somethinghe tells me(gruesome my next move)for social pleasure, cleanlinesshe does not need this striveI pushshoenow

honored dead

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In passing we are Harrowing cello memoriam The bowing ligaments Mincing notes Avid readers of Our left behind dime Store novellas pouring over The typed scrawl Seeking momentary Relapse, as if to say In life this Leaflet breath, a mere mooredPen to characterUs, pockets of poesiesCannot sew a limerick forHalfpence, sonnet for Bourbon, a soberBeggary we denounceAnd hold each pebbleTo hide, to decorumOur granite headboard,In life, we hear odes,These tiresome repetitionsOf the literary past

let the ripple effect to pushed burn envelop sizable ripe white rhinefleisch of face do it again, repeat, do it again were not dueling behind scrim (this art of war is ash and powder)

for linsky our hero poet dies, all of them over and over

what do you reasonable expect, literature? hard nibble of lead, forced ink to fountain, or shall I dismember an ant tear away his bodily fluids, his legs, draft out on Chinese fortune opening these symbols of wishful rhyme, lust, love, poetry

what do you wish of us scribblers

I've got a chainsaw in the backseat I'm itching to chainsaw people and to think, my second but a lowly servant, my Tatiana a humble muscovite in Vermont, are these founders box seats soiled for my ass, a dead lifeless sprawl of arms on the ground

chainsaw out out palpable flesh puppets

make a hat with the scent from her perfume wear her face, and yes, indeed, take a limb (for they make great toothpicks)

I hate that I'm cornered into serial killer I hate that people my age aren't very smart I hate the I love old women, old stories

for its the young ones you duel and I've sanctioned, and off cannon shot labored hard to prevent this affable shot

and they move on they all find vaginas filled, giving, grasping and my cock, this young linsky out of place in olga pewter to heart

they say all poets die, lively

they say all people die, dismember for chainsaw and onegin did you shear my sideburns off?

I even hear they let a woman talk in public, I spread the rhetorical, propaganda why?

for I'd rather a woman then a black and who, is black these days in talent

a red starred aristocratic american indian thinks mainly whiskey, it helps soothe down the throat this abnormality but in a few moments silence carves stone the shaped piece of whittled arrows that pierce heart a blood appears

for these stains of fabric are common elsewhere us in decadent hut hurry in ballet, massage calves, ankles, but blood is shed on stage

fascinated beautiful poets, people are left to their own devices and mutating (unfortune) as we speak, these loafsome lumbering lyrics learning simple magic concoctions to dislodge the pelt of hail in your throat to swallow, pass stone, chopped up human worth